


The Sky and the Sea

by Allegory



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Being extremely gay, Cute, Fluff, Fluffy, Just really gay, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot, Sad, Symbolism, beach, ronan being horny lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory/pseuds/Allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want to fuck me?” Kavinsky asks, a casual topic of conversation, an invitation to a buddy for lunch. He keeps his eyes leveled on the straight line cutting sea from sky in the distance. Ronan glances at the buldge of his pants.</p><p>“Not really,” Ronan says. It’s not a lie. He looks where Kavinsky’s looking. Though with the vastness of the sea, it could really be anywhere. “I want to hold your hand.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky and the Sea

The hazy weather isn’t quite what they’d expected.

Kavinsky mumbles while his fingers tap fervently on his phone screen. He complains about the clear sunny day that the forecast website indicates, questions the acumen of American meteorologists and lets the profanity bleed through, all while slamming the door of Ronan’s BMW and throwing his head back on the car.

Ronan smiles while watching all this. It’s funny. For all the months they’ve known each other, he’s never seen this petulant side to him.

Kavinsky does eventually stop moping. He walks off into the distance, gazing up at the white buds of cotton plotted on the vast sky above them. The BMW chirps as Ronan locks the door and stands by Kavinsky, abandoning the mat, basket and poorly prepared sandwiches stuffed in the back of the car.

“What now?” Ronan asks, just because he wants to hear Kavinsky’s response.

“Wonder if I could dream the sun,” Kavinsky murmurs. He turns to Ronan, spiked hair flopping over his right eye like drooping black petunias. Ronan tells himself not to reach out, tuck the tress of his hair behind his ear and brush his knuckles upon Kavinsky’s cheek. Ronan stares at the ground.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says. He doesn’t want Kavinsky to dream the sun, or the moon or the stars or even for his nightmares to go away. He just wants to be here with him, Joseph Kavinsky. It’s a dream enough.

Kavinsky rubs his neck. A breeze rushes through the gaps between the leaves, toothed wind blowing at their backs. The trees here do not whisper. They merely speak, one tender voice, a mother cradling her children.

The two of them step through the foliage, each mind wandering to their own devices. Ronan thinks about how, two weeks ago, Kavinsky had called him out in the middle of the night. As if knowing Ronan couldn’t sleep, he made him sit in his knifed white car and stare at the nothingness before them, the dark, empty void off a gentle cliff. A delusion of sleep without sleep, nightmares without nightmares. Ronan’s consciousness had taken the bait. Eyelids batted. He felt the void materialize, a tangible entity. Then a more tangible entity, Kavinsky’s calloused fingers sliding between his.

Neither of them had spoken about it. Ronan never intends to. But here they are, the silence thick between them, and Ronan still doesn’t want to rationalize it. Kavinsky hasn’t had any trouble looking at or acting like his cheeky, mischievous self around Ronan. But Ronan has. Ronan clenches and unclenches his fists. He’s had trouble with a lot of things.

The trees soon give way to a beach. Dunes of sand stretch out before them, edged by soggy grains and a sea of pure, horizontal blue. The sun would have given them a sapphire shine, but the sun isn’t there. A protrusion of rocks stand to their right. Ronan glances at Kavinsky and sees the same destination in his eyes. Of the mellow sand, calm waters and rocks that could cut and bleed, they are naturally inclined to danger, the rush of it.

Ronan climbs up first. He climbs and some old fantasy in his mind flashes before him, the sight of Kavinsky pinned beneath him, dark eyes tipped with lust, his tank top pushed up to his armpits where Ronan can revel at his beauty. The beauty is fictional. Ronan finds himself shocked to think of such a thing while navigating his way up the rocky slope, his jeans scuffing against the rough surface, skin scraping off his arm. He keeps thinking anyway, of how perhaps he would enjoy Kavinsky taking him instead, breathing hard into his neck while Kavinsky sucks and nibbles his earlobe.

Shit. He’s getting hard.

Kavinsky doesn’t seem to take notice and Ronan almost wants to be mad about that. Kavinsky follows in Ronan’s hand and footholds and ends up right behind him, brushing the dust off his knees. He looks up and, _finally,_ Ronan thinks. Ronan imagines Kavinsky would make a dirty joke, _Dick making you hard again?_ Instead, he’s greeted with deathly silence. Kavinsky’s eyes swoop to the ground. He strides forward, not a single feature out of place. Ronan stares at Kavinsky’s ass and feels himself get a little happier down there.

The protrusion cuts into sea. There are no trees so close to the edge, nothing to grapple onto if they slipped on moss and fell into the deep, impaled by whatever lies beneath. Perfect. The peril, the rush of knocking on Death’s door and wondering if they’ll get a response. Also, they are standing alone in the middle of nowhere. Ronan’s dick is finally unavoidable.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Kavinsky asks, a casual topic of conversation, an invitation to a buddy for lunch. He keeps his eyes leveled on the straight line cutting sea from sky in the distance. Ronan glances at the buldge of his pants.

“Not really,” Ronan says. It’s not a lie. He looks where Kavinsky’s looking. Though with the vastness of the sea, it could really be anywhere. “I want to hold your hand.”

The rise and fall of Kavinsky’s chest becomes more prominent. He gazes at the ground again, mossy slickness against his rubber soles. Somewhere beyond them, a seagull calls to the world. Kavinsky says nothing. In the periphery of Ronan’s vision, he sees Kavinsky’s fists unfurling, his fingers twitching. It’s a lot harder to steal from Ronan when he’s awake.

But Ronan wants to let him.

He wants Kavinsky to have anything and everything. His mind, his body, all the frightful nightmares in between, all wrapped up and packaged for this misguided misfit, his twin, his foil. And in return, all Ronan wants are his hands. To feel them, to touch them again, to let himself believe that what had happened on the cliff in the white Mitsubishi was real.

Kavinsky rejects Ronan’s offer. He takes a deep breath and slides his fingers between Ronan’s shirt and the beaks and thorns on his back, those cruel, cruel things living inside him. They are part of Ronan, part of the boy whom Kavinsky has succumbed to, bit by bit. He loves him, loves everything about him, the pain and the damage that reflects his own. Inverted mirrors of each other.

“I don’t think this’ll work,” Kavinsky says, inhaling the sea salt, a sulfurous tang.

“It doesn’t have to,” Ronan answers. He plies Kavinsky’s hand from his back and intertwines their fingers, that hopeful sensation fluttering across his stomach again. “We’ll never work. That’s the fun part.”

Kavinsky lets out a hollow laugh, the start and the finish, the sky and the sea. One world joined with the other, divided by a thin thread. He lets their hands hang between them and thinks to himself that this is okay. Their story doesn’t have to have an ending, much less a happy one.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for mistakes, written cos of my own insomnia lol. Hope you enjoyed this superbly short ficlet!


End file.
